Traitor Angels (12 page)

Lodge together in London? Clearly he’d believed Antonio’s assurances that we were now working in tandem to prevent the king from gaining possession of my father’s secrets. I shifted uncomfortably. If Antonio and I succeeded, my family and I would soon be living in a foreign land and he would be on his way home to Florence . . . and Robert would never forgive us for betraying him.

My face went hot. I glanced at Robert. He was sitting cross-legged on Antonio’s bedroll. His face was still bruised, but the swelling in his lips had gone down enough so he could speak without slurring his words like a drunkard. Despite our horses’ quick pace, he’d continued wearing his wig, keeping it clapped to his head by securing the ties of his hat tightly beneath his chin.

“I thought we would go directly to my family’s home.” Even to my ears, my voice sounded unnaturally high. “We need to retrieve what my father hid in the sand barrel.”

“Yes, of course, but afterward we might need a place to hide
while we figure out how to help your father,” Robert said. “We should stay with my intended—she has a large estate and a mostly absent chaperone.”

“You’re engaged to be married?”

“Yes.” Robert forced a smile. “My betrothed is Lady Katherine Daly of Ireland. My father hopes to curry the favor of his Irish and Scottish subjects by tying his sons to their countrywomen. I’m lucky, though,” he said hastily, “for Lady Katherine’s a beautiful maiden of sixteen. I easily could have been saddled with someone dull-witted and old. And she’s devoted to me—we can trust her discretion if we lodge with her.”

“Don’t you wish to marry for love?” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Odd’s fish, how could I have spoken so boldly?
Without daring to look at Robert, I busied myself setting out the packets of bread and cheese.

“No,” Robert said quietly. “I haven’t let myself reflect upon such things. Even when we lived in poverty in exile, I knew my life was not my own, whether I had been born out of wedlock or not. I belong to England before I belong to anyone else, and I’ll do anything to help my country. Even if it means marrying a stranger or fighting my father.”

If only we could work on the same side. I had to let him know how much I admired him. Maybe someday the memory would make my deception taste less bitter in his mouth. Impulsively I grabbed his hand. “You must know I’d prefer a government ruled by the people, but . . . if I had to choose between you and your father as a ruler, I’d choose you.”

This time, his smile didn’t look forced.

After supper Antonio built a small fire for me to work by, and I continued copying out
Paradise Lost
. There must be additional clues concealed in the poem, the three of us had agreed while we ate. Unfortunately, I knew I would only be able to capture some of my father’s original words. At best, most of the verses would be paraphrases; at worst they’d be my own inventions.

Antonio and Robert paced nearby, talking in low voices. At last I stopped and read what I had written. I had reached the section in which Adam speaks with Raphael, an angel who is visiting Eden from Heaven. Satan is creeping through Eden like a low-hanging black mist, and the two humans are still safe—the temptation hasn’t yet occurred.

I skimmed the passage in which Adam asks Raphael about the workings of the universe:

When I behold this goodly Frame, this World

Of Heav’n and Earth consisting, and compute

Thir magnitudes, this Earth a spot, a graine

An Atom, with the Firmament compar’d

And all her numbered Starrs, that seem to rowle

Spaces incomprehensible . . .

In this section Adam sounded as though he was an astronomer. An odd image—I’d always pictured him as a farmer.

My hand hovered over the paper.
Adam is an astronomer
, I repeated, my heart thudding in my chest.
He wishes to count the stars, to number the constellations turning in the heavens; he wants to understand the rules of our galaxy.

Slowly I raised my head to stare at the two boys walking
beneath the trees, their outlines red from the firelight.

“I think I’ve found one of my father’s clues!” I called.

As one, they raced to me. “What is it?” Antonio asked.

“There is astronomy in my father’s poem,” I said, shoving the page at them to read. “In this passage, he portrays Adam as a budding natural philosopher.”

They scanned my scrawled lines. Then Antonio’s head snapped up.

“These are the sorts of questions I asked my master when I was a boy,” he said. “How could your father know I said such things?”

“I don’t know. I . . .” I flailed, searching for an answer. “Your master must have told him. Perhaps he and my father have written each other letters for years. How else would my father have known your master’s street address?” I asked as the image of my father’s letter to Signor Viviani appeared in my mind’s eye, the addressee’s name and street written in Deborah’s handwriting.

“Then if this character says your words,” Robert said, darting a look at Antonio, “maybe he’s meant to represent you.”

A tingle raced along my spine. Father did often weave real-life figures into his poetry. Hastily I flipped to a fresh sheet and scrawled:
Adam. Antonio
. Both began with the letter
A
. Both referred to young men—natural philosophers who study the stars and the makings of the world around them.

As though my fingers moved of their own volition, they tightened on the quill and wrote two more names:
Eve. Elizabeth
.

“My father made
us
into the characters!” I breathed. “The entire story—good and evil, different sides battling one another, two young people seeking something that will give them
knowledge, like Adam and Eve and the apple and us and whatever it is that my father hid—it’s all a reflection of our quest!”

“By God, I think you must be right!” Robert edged closer to me, his eyes intent on the papers in my lap. “What about the other characters—could they be real people, too?”

I scribbled several angels’ names.

“It’s an alliterative scheme,” I said at once. “My father’s fond of such literary tricks. See—there’s Michael, an angel, and Milton. The archangel Gabriel and Galileo—he must appear twice, both as himself, ‘the Tuscan Artist,’ and disguised as an angel to show he’s doubly important to the story. There must be a third angel named for Signor Viviani—Uriel!” I concluded triumphantly. “The
U
and
V
letters are so similar, my father would have forced the pattern to fit. These three men represent God’s angels, who’ve fought Satan and his army in Heaven and are determined to keep God’s kingdom protected from evil.”

“Just as Mr. Milton, Signor Galilei, and my master wanted to keep Signor Galilei’s discovery secret but safe,” Antonio said. “They appointed themselves its guardians.”

“Then why,” Robert said urgently, “did that man who attacked Elizabeth refer to those three men as ‘traitor angels’? He made them sound wicked, as though they were on the side of Satan and his rebel army.”

“Sometimes evil depends on your perspective,” Antonio said. I knew by the pained expression on his face he must be thinking of his revered Galileo. “Our assailants probably think Mr. Milton, Signor Galilei, and my master are the wicked ones.”

“Evil is eternal and unchanging,” Robert disagreed. The boys started arguing as I skimmed through the stack of papers, trying
to find more clues. Now I saw my father’s poem with new eyes. Eve, whom I had never paid much attention to, fairly leaped off the pages at me: beautiful and sweet, with blond hair curling down her back. She’s ruled by what Father refers to as “fancy,” but which I knew meant her imagination. Several lines caught my eye:

My Author and Disposer
, Eve says to Adam,
what thou bidst, / Unargu’d I Obey; so God ordains, / God is thy Law, thou mine: to know no more / Is womans happiest knowledge and her praise.

Something icy jabbed my heart. Father was saying Eve not only was inferior to Adam, but rejoiced in her lower status, believing it was the lot of females. I hadn’t misremembered those lines; when Father had originally dictated them to me, I’d found them so irritating they’d burrowed into my brain like burrs, difficult to shake loose.

Was this Eve who my father had wanted me to be? This golden-haired, empty-headed beauty? She was nothing like me. I must be missing something—a vital clue hidden somewhere in the story that would tell me why my father had chosen to portray me as a character wholly unlike myself. I flipped through the pages again, but I could find nothing. Well, I hadn’t copied out the poem’s final three books yet. There might be answers at the story’s end—

“We haven’t considered one question.” Robert’s voice interrupted my thoughts. His eyes were wide and frightened. “If many of the characters in
Paradise Lost
are meant to have counterparts in real life, then there’s one person whom we must identify as quickly as we can.”

My stomach dropped. I knew who he meant.

“Satan,” I whispered.

Antonio released a heavy breath. Wordlessly he began kicking dirt onto the fire, smothering the flames. I watched the burning twigs vanish beneath a layer of dark earth, and I couldn’t stop shivering, even though the night was warm.

ALL THE NEXT DAY WE RODE. AS WE CANTERED, WE
took turns tossing out names to one another as possibilities for my father’s Satan. Buckingham? Impossible; his name was George Villiers. The king? The only
s
in his name came at the end of “Charles,” and it was apparent from my father’s literary scheme that he selected names that began with the relevant letter.

Frustrated, we raced across the parched fields. Whoever my father had selected as his version of the devil, it had to be someone powerful, and the aristocracy presented us with dozens of options. Robert called out suggestions until he suddenly drew hard on his reins. Antonio and I jerked our horses to a halt, then wheeled them around to look at Robert. He sat motionless, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. When his eyes met mine, they looked dark.

“I know who it is,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t want to believe it
but . . . it has to be my father.”

“We’ve already rejected him,” Antonio objected. “There’s no
s
in his name—”

“Yes,” Robert broke in desperately, “there is. My father belongs to the house of Stuart.”

A chill shivered along my spine.
Of course
. English monarchs had always been descended from particular lines—the Plantagenets, the Lancastrians, the Tudors, and now the Stuarts. In my mind, I ran through the catalog of my father’s literary version of Satan. An enormous creature. A leader. Charismatic, seemingly brave. Powerful. And so seductive that a reader doesn’t realize she has fallen alongside him until he tempts Eve and his true nature is revealed.

The king was also massive—six feet tall. So charming that he had romanced dozens of women and even persuaded his wife to permit his illegitimate babies to be brought up in the nursery at Whitehall. The man who held the most powerful position in the land.

It had to be. I almost let out a whoop of satisfaction; then I spied Robert’s agonized expression and the sound died in my throat. No one would want to believe his father was capable of being termed a devil—even if it was only a literary allusion.

I reached out to grab Robert’s bridle, my bare fingers brushing his gloved ones. “I’m sorry. This must be hard for you.”

His smile quirked up the corners of his mouth but didn’t change anything else in his face. A false smile. “It’s fine,” he said quickly. “I’ve always known he wasn’t angelic. Kings can’t be. They don’t have the luxury of kindness, not when so many lives depend on them. It’s fine,” he said again when Antonio clapped
his shoulder in solidarity. “Let’s ride, can’t we?”

I wanted to press the issue, but the misery on his face kept me quiet. We spurred our horses onward without another word.

Just as the sun had begun to dip beneath the horizon—a blazing red ball sending its last fiery rays across the sky—we spied the irregular wooden houses and crooked lanes of Southwark. London lay across the river. My heart kicked in my chest. We were so close.

We clattered through the narrow streets. Tradespeople wended their way home after a long day’s work: milkmaids carrying jugs on their heads, butchers whose leather aprons were stained with animals’ blood, and cobblers who stank of lye. Market vendors led their horse-drawn carts, laden with empty baskets that had once contained cloth and buttons, strawberries, fish, onions, potatoes, and grain, sold and gone now.

London Bridge loomed ahead of us. It was the only crossing that spanned the Thames, and this ensured both of its ends were usually crowded with travelers waiting to make the trip to the other side. Today was no exception: coaches, carts, and people on horseback or on foot stood in a long queue. We joined the back of the line. No one gave Robert a second look; he wore his hat low, obscuring his face. In everyone I looked at, I imagined I saw my Oxford attacker’s face, but when I looked again, he wasn’t there. Even so, the back of my neck prickled. He and his companions might have made it to London ahead of us. They could be anywhere. I swallowed hard, realizing I had been staring at one of the men waiting in line. Hastily I looked away.

Beneath the bridge, massive waterwheels groaned in their slow revolutions. The river’s surface bristled with a variety of
craft: grain and timber ships, oyster-, dung-, and eel-boats, coasters, merchantmen, and wherries, the cheap, low-bottomed boats that had helped me understand Galileo’s theory of constant motion. On the opposite bank, the Thames lapped at the water gates of the Tower, whose lower walls were dotted black with cannons. The White Tower speared toward the sky, a vast column of pale stone, the original part of the fortress and prison that had been built some six hundred years ago. A massive wall wrapped itself around the Tower and the vast complex of buildings surrounding it.

As we inched forward on the bridge, I saw the city spreading out in all directions before us: a mix of workshops, warehouses, tenements, and slums alongside mansions, guildhalls, and churches. Lines of shadows snaked between the buildings, marking the streets, alleys, and lanes that made up the confused jumble of London’s system of roads. Earthenware roofs glowed orange in the light of the setting sun, and above them, kites flew back and forth, searching the streets for carrion.

A portion of the bridge was lined with grand timber-framed houses with elaborately carved and gilded facades. I saw the house belonging to my weapons instructor, Mr. Hade, whose success as a merchant had enabled him to rent a place in such a coveted area. I wondered how he had fared during the plague—he and my father hadn’t written each other letters, fearing the disease could live in the paper.

Robert leaned across his horse, murmuring, “What are you looking at so intently?”

I nodded at the five-story wooden house we were passing. “The man who trained me in sword fighting, Mr. Hade, lives there.”

Robert glanced at the house. “He’s a lucky man, to live surrounded by water.”

“A hard taskmaster, too. I used to hate how he’d strike my hands with the flat of his sword if I let them drift out of position.” I shivered, remembering the man in the fields outside Oxford, the lines of blood trickling between his fingers. “I’m grateful now for his high standards.”

We reached the stone keep of Bridge Gate, the last impediment before we could move onto land again. A score of criminals’ heads had been left impaled on the battlements. Ravens had picked out most of their eyes and eaten the flesh off the skulls, leaving behind only sun-bleached bone. Shuddering, I looked away.

Our horses stepped off the bridge. Side by side we plodded down the street. At the corner I grabbed Robert’s bridle, forcing him to come to a halt. He looked at me questioningly.

“I must go to my family’s home alone,” I told him, as Antonio and I had earlier agreed. His mouth dropped open in astonishment—I doubted anyone had spoken to him so firmly before—but I didn’t back down. “My sisters and I are the daughters of one of the most notorious political traitors in the country,” I reminded him. “If they see a king’s son at their door, they’ll be terrified.”

“Very well,” Robert muttered, but he didn’t look pleased. “Where should we meet you?”

“At the edge of Bunhill Fields. It’s close to my family’s house on Artillery Walk.” I slid off my horse, holding out the reins to Antonio. “I can’t ride home. I live on a poor street, and a boy on a horse would attract attention.”

He took the reins, his gloved hands brushing my bare ones. “Keep yourself safe.” There was something in his tone I couldn’t identify.

“And you, as well.”

His gaze weighed heavily on my shoulders as I walked away. Every beat of my heart seemed to scream
hurry, hurry
, and I quickened my pace. By the time I rounded the corner, I was running.

The farther north I went, the more twisted and narrow the streets became, a sign I was entering a poor section. Here the wooden houses sagged against one another, their additions jutting out so far that the houses on opposite sides of the street almost touched, blotting out the last strains of daylight. Some of their doors still bore the faint impression of an X, indicating that the people who had lived there had fallen ill from the plague.

The sounds of the city rose up all around me: dogs and cats screeching from alleys, wooden signs creaking overhead, carriage wheels rattling over pavers, and everywhere, everywhere the voices of dozens of people, calling, shouting, laughing. I had forgotten what an
alive
city London was—how it wrapped itself around you like a cloak, surrounding you with colors and sights and smells until your senses were overcome.

All at once Artillery Walk opened up before me—a slender lane lined with shabby row houses. My family’s home was a plain brick building fronted with a couple of steps where my father used to sit on summer evenings, strumming his mandolin and chatting with neighborhood men as they returned home from their work.

The steps were empty now. In the lane a handful of dirty-faced
children were playing jacks, and several men walked together, their steps slow and tired after a day spent baking bread, sewing clothes, or toiling in the tanneries that lined the river. I recognized some of them and ducked my head, pulling my hat lower over my face. I hoped my boy’s clothes provided enough of a disguise to trick their eyes.

I jogged up the steps, then hesitated. What if our attackers had already reached London—and were inside with my family right now? Fear swirled in my stomach. All I had were my knives; they would have to be enough.

Setting my shoulders, I reached for the door. The handle turned easily in my hand. I stepped inside, then stood still, listening with all of my might. The low murmur of female voices. No males. Either our assailants had already been here and left, or they hadn’t reached London yet. Either way, I’d better be fast.

Although it had been well over a year since I had last seen the parlor, it looked just as I remembered: a small, plain chamber containing a few wooden chairs and a single table, the whitewashed plaster walls devoid of decoration. Mary, Deborah, and Betty sat perched on the chairs, their heads bent over the samplers in their hands. As in the old days, Anne sat on a stool by the hearth, humming under her breath. When they caught sight of me, their faces slackened in shock.

“E-E-Eliz,” Anne gasped out. Hearing her familiar voice brought tears to my eyes. She jumped to her feet and managed a few unsteady steps before tripping and landing hard on her knees. I ran to her, dropping down beside her and pulling her into my arms. The bones in her back felt as delicate as a bird’s. Only days had passed since we had seen each other, but she already seemed thinner. I hoped the strain of Father’s imprisonment hadn’t been
too much for her.
Save her and all your sisters
, whispered a voice in my mind. It was up to me to secure Father’s release, I knew, or he would die, leaving us to face an uncertain future. The pressure built up in my chest until I could scarcely breathe.

I looked at Betty.

“Have any men come here since you returned?” I demanded.

“No. The king’s men escorted us here, but they’ve left us alone ever since.”

I sagged with relief. Thank God, I had arrived in time. Arms encircled my waist from behind, and another pair twined around my neck. Mary and Deborah—I recognized their scent of flour and chamomile.

“There’s been no word of Father,” Mary said in a strangled-sounding voice. “Oh, Elizabeth, we’ve been so frightened for you! Where have you been all this time?”

“I wish I could tell you everything, but I must hurry.” Gently I released Anne, who regarded me with tear-filled eyes. “I want to stay with you, more than I can say, but I need to help Father. There’s something hidden in the cellar that might free him.”

As my sisters murmured in surprise, I turned to the table where my stepmother kept our supply of tallow candles and was startled to see her holding out a lit taper.

“You’ll need this.” There was a catch in her voice.

It was the first time I could remember her helping me. “I—thank you,” I stammered.

With the candle clutched in my hand, I hurried to the back of the house, where a set of steps in the kitchen led to the cellar. The smell of damp earth assailed my nose as I crept down the stairs, the candle’s flame splashing gold on the dirt walls and floor. Wooden bins and barrels lined the edges of the room.

The creak of decaying wood told me my sisters were descending the steps. Without turning, I said, “Father hid something in one of the barrels of sand. Please, I’m begging you, help me find it—”

“What are you talking about?” Mary interrupted. “You’re scaring us, Elizabeth!”

I whirled around. Mary and Deborah stood a few feet away, their faces slack with confusion. Anne watched us from the top of the stairs, her hands braced on the wall for support. Even in the golden-lit darkness, she looked pale.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “There’s no time to explain. The king’s men desperately want whatever it is that Father has hidden down here. If I find it first, I can use it in exchange for Father’s release.”

Anne cried out something unintelligible, and Mary and Deborah gasped.

“You might be able to free Father?” Mary raced down the steps. “How? The king will never let him go!”

“If we have something he wants, he will.” I flew to the opposite wall, where the barrels of sand stood. One-handed, I ripped the lid off the nearest one. The candle I held showed me its interior: layers upon layers of pale yellow sand, which we’d used for years to scour the kitchen dishes clean and to blot my father’s writings. I plunged my hand down as deep as it would go. Stiff granules pressed against my skin. I felt around, my fingers raking through the sand from one side of the barrel to the other. Nothing.

Mary and Deborah, white faced, appeared on either side of me.

“Tell us what we’re seeking,” Deborah said.

“I don’t know, not exactly.” I dropped the lid into place. “A box, maybe, or papers.”

The next barrel had been shoved in the corner, behind the vegetable bins. Again I tore off the lid, letting it land on the dirt floor with a soft thump. I reached inside. More granules of sand, cold and minuscule. I pushed my hand deeper. The tip of my index finger brushed something hard. My heart knocked against my breastbone. Could this be it?